These Strings That Bind
by The Very Last Valkyrie
Summary: A collection of C/B vignettes covering their past, present and future. Some are fluffy, some are angsty, some are long and some are short, but all were written with great love for one of my favourite ever pairings.
1. Shards

**Shards**

It was the way he looked, she decided. The adrenaline had still been running thick in her veins and it was the way that those steady, slanting dark eyes had rested on her, drinking her in – Blair had never seen Chuck look at anyone like that before, regard anyone or even anything as an entity with more worth than a mere object.

It was the way she tasted, he decided. That first kiss had almost been a mistake, a footstep to a darker pleasure: sweet, forbidden. But something so enjoyable had no right to end up like this – as butterflies in his stomach, as the whirling in his brain, as the way every voice he heard seemed to shout _Blair Blair Blair!_

It had been like a ritualistic dance between them – one pushing forward as the other stepped back, never both to come together at the same time, never to understand what it meant to love and be loved simultaneously. And all because Blair _loved_ Nate – or at least thought she did. She knew that she should. She knew that she could, if she tried.

Things were breaking and smashing in Chuck's mind. His world was suddenly painted in shades of drab and dismal because _he'd_ sent her away, and because nothing and no one could comfort him. He knew it was driving him insane as he searched the bedsheets for a last whiff of her perfume; bewitching and bittersweet as love itself.

Three words.

Eight letters.

Two selfish, egotistical, masochistic, sadistic people whose only redeeming factor was the love that they had for each other – the ability to take things at face value and yet to understand what lay beneath layers and layers of frippery and farce. But still they weren't together, and it actually, _physically_ hurt. They were both so strong, so dominant and stubborn – and thereby neither surrendered. Neither could admit it, say the simple words, speak the syllables that could and would and should bind them together.

_I love you, Chuck Bass. I love you with every single fibre in my imperfect, inadequate being._

_I love you, Blair Waldorf. I love you with each and every piece of the heart I never knew I had._

__

But I can't.

_And I won't._

Ain't life a bitch?

_Fin._


	2. Because You Love Me

**Because You Love Me**

I look at myself and I know that I am bad. Bad girl. Bad Blair. Bad person. But the more I think, the more my addiction is fuelled. The more I strive, the further away the endgame seems. The more I look in the mirror, the more I can't face it. I can't face my own face in the morning, and it makes me sicker than I could ever make myself. I could look down deep into that white world I know so well, and I would still be disgusted to call this face – this body – mine. I look at that empty face and I know that I am bad.

They call it a sickness. A disease. Was Michelangelo, I ask, diseased when he carved David into that exact, impractical shape? Was Da Vinci mad when he painted the Mona Lisa's secretive smile? There are doctors and therapists and relatives, and they all look at me and tell me that I am bad. I am bad and not beautiful, but I don't see how being good will make me beautiful either. They forbid me to purge, they forbid me to look, they forbid me to breathe – and all because I am bad in their eyes, and what I do is worse.

I feel myself with you because I know that you are worse. I know that you break the law, ride hard, shatter hearts into millions of tiny pieces. I know that you want me because you can't have me, fear me because you're scared. You're my best friend, my second heartbeat.

I can look at Serena and see that she is good. She is the milk and honey to my changeling, sunlight shining through the leaves. She is the flame in the darkness that every moth is attracted to, even the moths who promised to stay by my side no matter what occurred and no matter what manner of creature drew their eyes away. I love Serena because she is good, I love her because she is beautiful, and I love her because when she stays over I can wake up and see a good face next to mine.

You and I are well met in dark places. Well met and well matched, some say. We hold the secrets of this city between our clasped hands, and one shared look from our shared dark eyes is enough to bring even the proudest to their knees. You and I were made for each other, dark queen and even darker consort. That is why I seek the golden goodness of Nate and Serena, and that is why I hide from you when I need you most. If I can't see, then I don't need to fight. If I don't need to fight, I can never lose.

If a dream is bad, is it a nightmare? Is it a nightmare if you aren't afraid? I wasn't afraid when it all fell away and you saw me as I was. I wasn't afraid when you told me I wasn't bad. I am not afraid of the happiness you bring, even when I walk with Nate and have to content myself with treating you civilly. All that matters is that you and I know that every brush past and every accidental caress is deliberate, and that each and every line will be followed up in a locked room where no one can hear me say your name.

I am bad again. I am so bad because you aren't here to save me. I wait in unfamiliarity, not crying because I don't know who will see. That's the point – the most familiar person within a million miles, so it seems, is myself. When I know that you have seen my badness and loathed it, I hook myself a different kind of fish and return to the city to taunt with my latest catch. You don't care, you claim – so why is it that you push past his lies and try to open my own eyes for me?

You and I are well met in dark places. The lights are out and I know you are not who you say you are, because you taste like you and you feel like you and you hold me like you aren't scared of breaking the farce – the impenetrable barrier we have between us. I love you. I love you.

All that glitters is not gold. Once more you and I do battle, trying to save the ones we simultaneously love and hate. There are times when I think that the darkness will consume you, and times when I have to pull you back from the brink. I do things that will hurt you because I am bad, and because I am thinking of your face even as I mouth a name that is not yours. That is how you hold me still, and accuse me even when I cannot see you. And when you dismiss the words that will heal us both, I think that my heart is breaking.

For once in my life, I do not feel bad. I'm not second to Serena in Nate's eyes or my mother's eyes or anyone's eyes, really. I am good, I am good, I am good! – and you have proved it with your words. You save me with the promise of someone who wants me first, someone who has always wanted me first; and then the world falls away and I know that you see me, and you know me, and you love what you see. I am complete and whole and good and better and best...because you love me.

_Fin._


	3. This Is How It Should Be

**This Is How It Should Be**

Vomit splatters on a dress that must have taken thousands of man hours to complete. The fabric is hand spun, the pattern hand painted, but does she care? Of course not. She's a Waldorf; these things are expendable. All Blair really cares about is getting Chuck off the street where everyone knows his face – and hers – and into the faceless familiarity of The Palace, a haven where dirty clothes are quietly whisked away with no questions asked and no parents informed. It's his sanctuary – and now perhaps it's hers.

She does, however, wish she had someone else here to help her. Serena, Nate – hell, she'd even take Humpty Dumpty or Humpty Senior at this point. As soon as that thought crosses her mind, she regrets it – the only person allowed to see Chuck like this is her, and it's a right hard won by years of enduring friendship and even longer lasting schemes. Recent events only cement her claim.

Chuck's eyes roll in their sockets to see who's carrying him now, who's cleaning up the mess his father never wanted. He's more than surprised to see that it's Blair, but doesn't let on. Instead, he tries to laugh. Only more scotch laced vomit comes out, and Blair's bodice is now certainly ruined. As ever, she doesn't regret the loss – she's a Waldorf, after all – but she'd much rather the concierge thought that she was being taken to his suite for a booty call rather than a cleanup operation. Lifestyles of the rich and famous indeed.

But still, they're here now, rising in the lift. She can't see why hotels are so keen to upholster in neutrals – it only shows the stains far too badly, and Chuck Bass is by no means the first socialite playboy to spew his guts over _this_ hotel's floor. She shudders at the metaphor, but there really is no better way to describe vomit – even the vomit of a friend and lover.

It takes real strength of mind to manoeuvre Chuck into the bathroom and stick his head over the spotless (not for long) toilet bowl. He is sick again and again, and she wipes the sweat from his face and rubs his back and tells him that it'll be alright. For once, Chuck Bass doesn't need a random to make him feel good about himself. What he needs the most is a mother and – failing that – a friend. Blair can provide both and that's why she's there, undignified as anything with her skirt ruined and reeking of bile.

She manages to put them both in a shower, and that Chuck's recovered enough to make her a sleazy offer is more than enough to bring a smile to her lips. They are in a fierce battle of the wits by the time she's rubbed them both dry, arguing over just whose fault it is that Chuck is in the state's he's in. He blames Blair for her captivating powers. She, for once, smiles and says nothing.

They fall asleep in each other's arms, each content with the other's presence. The maid who comes in to remove the soiled clothing that litters the floor can't help smiling nostalgically – Blair's head is pillowed on Chuck's chest and their hands are intertwined. Her nails are dark red. His look bitten. Somehow, each flaw makes them complete. She wears one of his shirts for decency while he wears a practically trademarked pair of silk pyjamas – this is how it should be, the clothes say. This is how it should always be.

Chuck has never known a pair of loving arms. He has always been surrounded by cold people who have used him – true, he's not free of sin, but not one of those girls believed that he truly loved her. They never held him when he was down because he never let them get close enough to see when his high rise lifestyle deposited him on the pavement. Blair is the only warmth he has ever known.

He grasps her in his sleep. He holds her tightly because he wants to. He holds her because he fears she might disappear. What started out as a forgettable mistake has left Chuck staring at the wall most days, wondering about the churning in his stomach. He is mortally afraid that she will leave him and return to the fizzy, fairytale life she's always dreamed of having. What Blair doesn't tell him is that she prefers it this way. That she loves him this way. That she'd rather die several times over than run to Nate right now.

Blair leaves in the hour before dawn. She leaves, and she hopes he won't remember. Chuck has enough to deal with – enough on his plate from trying to sample all that life has to offer at once, and making himself sick with it. What she doesn't know is that her perfume clings to the sheets, to his skin…this chase will run on and on until he is the victor, and they fall into bed once again.

_Fin._


	4. Tell Me A Lie

**Tell Me A Lie**

Many of those who count indulgence as the most unforgivable sin are those who are themselves the most overindulgent; obsessed. The ones who sweat and writhe and scream with ecstasy, all the while surrounded by velvet and chocolate and blood.

Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass count in that number. They _are_ that number.

Everything either does is provocative, and food is the worst. Food, they come to associate with each other. When Blair is betrayed, she exiles the food from her stomach; banishing it as she wishes to banish him. It doesn't work, of course – she's forever in a vortex of complete and total lust, swirling faster and faster until her eyes snap open and she realises that it's her own hand between her legs, not his. She hates him for that; hates him with a fire that burns brighter in the night, when all else is silent.

For his part, the opposite is true. Nameless girls, useless bodies – nothing will put out the flames, stop her accusing, beautiful eyes forcing themselves further into his soul. When Chuck eats he recognises her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin. The soft, yielding flesh of a peach is Blair. Bitter chocolate is Blair. Heady champagne is Blair. Coffee is Blair, aspirin is Blair, desire is Blair – and he smells and tastes and feels it everywhere he goes, everywhere there is lust and sin and deep, deep darkness.

They become slaves to themselves. Depraved, wanton, disgusted; because love makes you sick, doesn't it? They see each other in empty corners filled with hothouse flowers, in endless turquoise swimming pools, reflected in each and every crystal chandelier. A bowtie appears, and she remembers. A silken headband graces the wrong head, and he tries to forget.

Close your eyes, lovers. There's a space on the bed beside you, a space you can pretend is filled. Take his hand. Stroke her cheek. Feel their heartbeat. Move into a forbidden embrace, ghostly arms wrapped around ghostly bodies and ghostly eyes forever locked. Sweat and writhe and scream with phantom ecstasy. Surround yourself with velvet and chocolate and blood. Trust that somehow, somewhere, she has her phantom hands moving down further and his phantom fingers twisted in your hair.

_Fin._


	5. Seeking With Their Eyes Shut

**Seeking With Their Eyes Shut**

She drinks scotch when she needs him, but he's not there. It's that familiar perfume – warm, spicy, slightly bitter and ever so intoxicating – that pours inside her, filling the void she always feels when she's alone. Her solitude is constantly broken by an endless stream of people who want and need things that she is more than ready to give, but that doesn't abate it. Half of herself is far away, and a crackly voice through a bad phone line and a dozen emails a day don't make coping any easier.

No one comments on this strange habit, not even the ever tactless Serena – though many draw back from the brink of a double take when they see that proverbial figure hunched in the corner over a crystal tumbler. They skip a beat when they realise it's not him, and she smiles. Blair uses scotch like a security blanket – _he will come back,_ it whispers. _He will come back to me._

And always, like clockwork, like marionettes dancing in time, the day is done. She can relax; pull her hair out from the high twist that's been giving her a headache all day. She slips off her shoes and turns the fire up high, settling down to be lulled to sleep by the familiar cadences of Audrey and Cary and Grace. These same, familiar happy endings are soothing; they require no planning and no judgement. She doesn't even have to open her eyes. They're scotch and charade; Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck.

The soft touch of cashmere on her cheek wakes her in the blue-black stillness of the night. The heady scents of whisky and cigarette smoke and sweat and cologne swirl around her, all mixed together with that indefinable essence of warm, recognisable, know-them-with-your-eyes-shut lover. She pulls him close, strokes his face without lifting her lids. He kisses her, savouring the sweet salutation of her knowable-but-never-forgettable mouth. The intoxicating elixir of alcohol burns his tongue and he knows that she's been thinking of him. The kiss deepens. There are breathy sighs breaking the hush of a witching hour uninhabited by other creatures of the night. He lifts her off the couch, lighter than a child, smiling as she sleepily grumbles and frowns.

They make love in the moonlight, on their bed. The clothes come off slowly, the movements even slower; they've learnt how to be sweet when want rather than need is the order of the day. They sleep together in a mess of garments, underwear and outerwear and silken sheets all tumbled into a nest. Her head is on his gently rising chest. His hand is on her hip, turning her body sideways into an expansive question mark of pale, moon dappled skin that only her lover and the stars can see.

'_Lovers are dreamers. They seek with their eyes shut.'_  
– Anonymous

_Fin._


	6. Marcus

**Marcus**

'_Turn out the light and what are you left with?'  
_– Something To Believe In, Aqualung.

In the small halo of candlelight, you can pretend that the glow on your skin was put there by happiness. You can pretend that the certain something you want to happen in this convenient darkness is a gift for someone and not a finger in the eye for someone else. You can pretend that his familiar, velvety, gravelly voice didn't make you glad that he was touching you in places he shouldn't. You can pretend that you didn't feel a sense of release at the warm, dry heat of his hand, a flicker of fire deep in your belly when he made his offer.

"Marcus, is that you?"

"Blow out your candle."

His grip is crushing, bruising; you can file this away as a helpful fantasy for when someone else is holding you with much weaker arms. Then it begins – one little taste for re-familiarisation. You pull back, look at each other for a moment, and you wonder what he's thinking – his face is, you're sure, just as unreadable in darkness as it is in light. It's still a shame you can't see it.

There's one heartbeat and you're together, the kisses getting hotter, breathier, and you cling to him as a fresh sheen of sweat breaks out on your already damp skin. You hope he doesn't really think that his false accent has you fooled – he's not as tall as he should be, and his jaw is too square, and you can feel the sharp contours of his face beneath your fingers. Surely he gives you more credit than that.

Despite the obvious implications, you are all too aware that your bed is inches away, and you wonder if that would be letting him win. It doesn't matter, you suppose – one more kiss and you won't care if the entire building falls down.

Then the lights come on, and all hell breaks loose.

Turn on the light and pick up the pieces.

_Fin._


	7. Cat

**Cat**

Cat did not like James Schiller.

James Schiller smelt of too much cologne, and he sweated when he lied (which seemed to Cat to be a good deal of the time). Cat tolerated him for Blair's sake - that is to say, he tried very hard _not_ to bite him - but all the same...

Cat did not like James Schiller.

**~#~**

Cat did not like Nate Archibald.

Harold had brought Cat when he came over for a visit, and Cat had yowled and snarled and scrambled off Nate's lap. Nate Archibald smelt of crisp cotton and soap.

Cat did not like Nate Archibald.

**~#~**

Cat _loved_ Chuck Bass.

Chuck Bass had ankles that were interesting to twine around and a scarf that was comfortable to sleep on and he wore many different fabrics for Cat to rub up against. Chuck Bass always smelt faintly of Blair and another, richer scent that made Cat sleepy. It was Cat's opinion that he always knew what was best, and best for Cat usually meant best for Blair too -

Thus, Cat loved Chuck Bass, and he always would.

_Fin._**  
**


	8. All My Loving

_**This was mainly inspired by the beautiful ending of Across The Universe, and of course by the film itself. When Jude stood on the rooftop and looked across into Lucy's eyes, I really felt how unimportant everything else around them seemed - all that mattered was their love.  
**_

* * *

**All My Loving**

It's a Thursday when she realises that love truly is all you need. It's raining hard outside the window, and even the city noises seem soggy and tired. A car horn sounds, then another – somebody's swerved somewhere, a Chinese delivery boy who's tumbled off his bicycle. The girl who helps him up speaks very little English, but she'll marry him someday.

Blair doesn't understand when or why. She thinks she's tripped; she thinks she's stumbled. With such a little misstep, people never hit the ground – especially people who know that other people are watching. She watches the city through the window – peaceful, damp. She sees mothers with babies hurrying out of the wet, employees who can't escape the elements running errands with no end in sight, couples who don't care about the weather whispering together under the same umbrella. They have bright heads and bright eyes and their lives seem to spill out across the pavement before them in rainbow shimmers. _And you love her_.

She doesn't hear the tap on the door, doesn't notice anyone come in. There are crumpled tissues by her tight fist and he unwinds it, gently straightening and flexing each of her stiff fingers with all the care of an artist. Black eye makeup has streaked down to her nose, and her lip still trembles. He curls around her, forms himself, encloses her and wraps her and shields her from everything else – it's all a hallucination. All friction. His kisses are sweet, like the rain; hers are yielding.

"I'm sorry."

In doing and in doubt, they pass from one thing to the next, ending here at last. The completion of a ritual that raises their spirits above the holiest of holies; communion for their souls.

"It's alright."

_Love is all you need._

_Fin.  
_


	9. Sure

_**This is a special gift for beckybeckybecky, whose review really brightened up my day.  
I was recently re-watching Victor, Victrola (as I do at least once a week), and thought how arrogant it was of Chuck to assume that just because Blair was kissing him it meant that she wanted to have sex with him - hence the 'are you sure?' Then I remembered it was Chuck.  
beckybeckybecky, I hope you like it.  
**_

* * *

**Sure  
**

Oh, you are arrogant, Charles Bass. You ask me that question because you think I want you in every way possible...and you're right. You're right. You understand that me even touching you means that I want you so, so badly that I ache deep down in my core, deep down where you have whipped my hidden flame into an inferno that threatens to destroy us both.

The trails your fingers have left are white hot; they thaw me. How many times have we touched hands? Innocent, chaste - you help me out of cars and through doorways and you're always a gentleman, no matter how hard you try to deny or disguise it. You're one of the old school, hard raised and hard won because you've clawed your way up to the right to touch me. You are sickened, as I am, by those who have life handed to them on a plate and push it away. They're golden gods, but they're not us. Never us.

We're just two sweaty teenagers in the back of a car, doing what sweaty teenagers do. I'm so tired of being thrown back, ignored, pitied; so sick of having my heart torn in two by him and her and them and her and him.

With you, it doesn't have to be easy.

It only has to be sweet.

_Fin._


	10. Swear This One You’ll Save

**Swear This One You**'**ll Save**

She's one of those people who are so cold, you wonder if they even sweat.

Nate Archibald wonders this. He wonders why his girlfriend's pulse never quickens, why they kiss so carefully, why her palm remains cool and dry when they hold hands. He wonders why her eyes look like onyx, shiny and hard, even after a long make out session. He wonders why she, the icy pale moon, does not sizzle next to the brilliance of Serena's golden sun.

Marcus Beaton wonders this. He wonders why the beautiful girl who swept him off his chivalrous feet smiles like a cat when she scores a point off the dark eyed boy, why she won't look him in the face, why her skin doesn't flush, even in a heat wave. He wonders why she's so desperate to take that one step further. He wonders why he was too clueless to see the truth.

Carter Baizen can't be bothered to wonder this.

Chuck Bass has never wondered this. He notices everything, even the slightly dewing on her smooth skin that indicates heat or exertion. People expect Blair to be cold and hard so that's what they see – even Nate, who was with her for so long, was oblivious all those times she rushed to meet him with her cheeks flushed, her palms slick and her heart hammering. Even Serena, who knew her better than most people, never wondered why her friend's eyes were wild or her dress was wrinkled as if it had been hitched up. _He_ knows it all. He knows the inferno that lurks beneath the frosty shell. He knows the deep purr that signifies deep, dark contentment. He knows what perspiration tastes like when licked from the hollow of her throat. Best of all, no one can make her sweat like he can.

It's their secret.

_Fin._


	11. Grey Ceiling On The Earth

**_This takes place the night after Nate tells Blair about him and Serena. Someone requested that I do another oneshot in the style of This Is How It Should Be, but I was feeling a touch of the angst so this is quite dark.  
Enjoy.  
_**

* * *

**Grey Ceiling On The Earth**

'_You have to learn to love a child before you can love the adult it's become.'_  
– Anonymous

'_The grey ceiling on the earth  
Well it's lasted for a while  
Take my thoughts for what they're worth  
I've been acting like a child.'_  
– Your Winter, Sister Hazel.

Blair supposed hazily that what she was doing was weak, childlike – not grown up enough to merit attention from a mother who wouldn't have given her the time of day even if she had asked for it. Still, it seemed as if she didn't care. There was no part of her body or brain indicating any pain over the foregone conclusion. Only sweat dewed her forehead, only tears overran her dark eyes – only her head swam, and her head swam thickly with betrayal and lies, facts bursting their dams and creating tsunamis of forbidden information.

She didn't know who'd called him; she only knew when he was there, beside her. Chuck sank to his knees, reaching for the curled up body of his best friend's girlfriend and holding her as she sobbed into his shoulder. Had Nate really been dumb enough to think that she hadn't known – or at least suspected – the real reason Serena had left town? She'd been the one to sent them off together, after all, the one to tell herself she was seeing things when Nate came back ruffled and Serena never came back at all.

The room reeked, and he wondered how many times she'd purged – once? Twice? More? How many would it take to hurt her? There was a bitter taste in his own mouth, a sorrow that was not his own, and a lust that he knew very well to be his. For the more she gripped his shirt, the more he imagined her nails raking across his back. The more she sobbed, the more he could imagine how she'd moan. The more he could only be her friend, he longed for something more, for a completion to the ache which offered him nothing but fiercely denied pain.

The more she held onto him and not to Nate, Chuck Bass could dream. He could dream that the beautiful girl he held in his arms was his, and that one day the gossip, the scandal and every tear she'd cried would be for something.

_Fin._


	12. Pieces

**Pieces**

_**~#~**_

"_The last time I saw Blair that freakishly calm –"_  
"_Was when Serena left for boarding school."_  
"_And you know as well as I do the calm won't last, and when it breaks…there are going to be pieces of Blair all over the wall."  
_– Chuck Bass & Nate Archibald – They Shoot Humphreys, Don't They?

_**~#~**_

Nate knew that when things were right, you weren't supposed to feel guilty about them. He also knew (in exactly the same way that he knew that two plus two equalled four – because to Nate, things were always that simple) that what happened with Serena had been right – meant to be. So why was he standing outside Blair's building, bouquet in hand and Chuck in tow, far too skittish to go in?

"Use it or lose it, Archibald," his best friend drawled, and Nate squared his shoulders. First and foremost (and of this fact Chuck had just reminded him) he was an Archibald, and Archibald men did not shy away from their duty. After he'd apologised and ended it with Blair, he would go and find Serena. He would tell her that they could be together, at last. That he loved her. In his mind, her blue eyes would suddenly shine with unexpected tears, and she would fling her arms around his neck and whisper almost inaudibly that she loved him too. Then…well. Nate couldn't think about then without his pants becoming uncomfortably tight.

So he bowed to Chuck's command, entering the building with a smile and a nod to the doorman (who sneered at Chuck) and a glare at Chuck (who sneered back). They rose together in the elevator, Chuck silently wondering why Nate had brought him along on this mission of kiss ass and make up – maybe as a human shield if Blair started to throw things?

The elevator pinged, and the door slid open. There was Blair – radiant in her serenity as she lounged across the couch, casually flipping through that month's issue of Vogue and occasionally dog-earing a page so she could turn back to it. As the elevator doors chimed she looked up, and a wide smile spread across her already luminous face.

"Nate! Chuck!" She rose gracefully to her feet and glided towards them, the afternoon sunlight forming a halo around her dark head as it streamed in through the window.

By her tone of voice alone, Chuck knew that something was up. He could almost see the real Blair hiding inside the papier-mâché shell, frantically gluing strips of newspaper over the cracks which appeared all around her. There was something squirming and struggling to get out in her eyes, and it was black and horrible and empty.

Nate only noticed that Blair was wearing yellow, and thought of Serena's yellow dress as she cavorted on top of the bar and then on top of him.

Blair leaned in swiftly to kiss Nate's cheek, then touched Chuck's lapel. "Nice shirt, Bass. Purple looks so great on you, have I ever told you that?" She gave him a dazzling smile, then returned her attention to her boyfriend and the flowers he was holding. "For me? How sweet!" Nate clumsily thrust them at her and she laughed a strange, tinkling laugh, dancing off to the kitchen to put them in some water.

Now Chuck _really_ knew something was wrong. Blair didn't like roses, she liked peonies. She didn't like her flowers unaccompanied by chocolate, and that chocolate had to be Godiva's Gold Collection._ He'd_ heard it enough times, so why didn't her boyfriend seem to get the message?

"Something's up," he murmured, careful to keep his voice low as Blair's unnaturally bright laughter sounded once more from the kitchen.

Nate regarded his friend with guileless blue eyes. "She seems fine to me."

"That's because your head's so full of Serena that you're not even looking!" _You've never looked,_ he added silently. _Not like I have._

"Did you know?" Blair emerged from the doorway looking sunnier than ever, a steaming pastry in one hand. _Blair Waldorf never eats carbs,_ Chuck thought. _Never._ "Serena's going to boarding school in Connecticut now. She went away last night in such a hurry she didn't even have time to call and say goodbye, isn't that strange? Her education's suddenly _so_ important, after all this time." The dark eyes flashed and were suddenly the real Blair's, but it only took a microsecond for them to gloss over and became china doll-esque again.

So that was it, was it? Chuck felt somewhat hollow but Nate was shocked and appalled – maybe heartbroken? He wasn't sure. In any case, he only stayed for a few more excruciating minutes before babbling out an apology for neglecting his boyfriendly duties lately and giving Blair a light kiss as recompense before bolting for the elevator. Chuck made to follow, but felt Blair's cool fingers alight on his arm. As he turned to look at her her, the coiling darkness in her eyes seemed to reach out for him, as if it longed to swallow him whole.

"I know," she said, broken and lovely, and the balloon behind her papier-mâché face popped.

_Fin._


	13. What You Feel

**_Evil!Chuck comes out to play for our thirteenth chapter. Enjoy, lovies._**

**

* * *

**

**What You Feel**

'_I just want to break you and watch you bleed.'_  
– James, Bad Girl Rising.

Despite everything he might say to the contrary, sometimes Chuck Bass wonders what it would be like if Blair Waldorf was just as unhappy as he is: what it would be like with _her_ sitting on his bed, waiting for salvation; _her_ watching as he cavorted with an old/new flame; _her_ shitless and witless and without a hope of anything in sight. He wonders if she'd make the same decisions he has, the same sacrifices – he imagines _her_ sitting at the bar, cold and empty, telling Serena that she loves him but knows she can never make him happy.

When he has these dark thoughts, he rolls over and buries his face in Blair's brown hair. The gentle scent of the product she uses seduces _him_, ensnares _him_ and only _him_.

What with time passing and his slow but sure realisation that ChuckandBlairBlairandChuck is not a fluke, it takes only a few months for him to just stop wondering.

It takes him a lifetime, however, to stop being comforted by the smell of her hair, even as the strands beneath his nose shade from dark to light to grey to white.

_Fin._


	14. First

**_A lot of people seem to be of the opinion that Blair spent the night after Victor, Victrola with Chuck (in a bed, I mean), but if I were him I wouldn't have put any money on her wanting to see me in the morning. Couple that with Blair's early morning church visit and change of clothes, and I reckon that she went home after a more than substantial amount of time in the limo (me, I just feel sorry for the driver. And wouldn't they roll around in there, what with the whole moving vehicle thing? Or maybe that was helpful, I don't know).  
Also, I'm in agreement with Dan __–_****_ for once ___****_– that: 'sex is meaningful, like art (and you don't rush art)', and I'm guessing that to start off a love story as epic as C and B's, whatever happened in the back of that car must have been pretty damn spectacular, both physically and philosophically (which is why this piece is more spiritual than sweaty). Plus, I'm not into writing smut _**_****__****__– mostly because penis synonyms make me giggle.  
Anyway, sorry for the long A/N. Enjoy._

**

* * *

**

**First**

Blair's breaths come heavy and short as she stares up at the ceiling with hot, bloodshot eyes. She cannot close them, no matter how hard she tries – she is too busy _feeling_. Her body has taken control of her mind for once and it is forcing her to stop focusing on consequences and betrayal and how the hell she's going to get Nate back. All she can think about is damp skin and breathing even more laboured than hers is now, a pain so exquisite that she sobbed and sighed and bit into his shoulder.

He hissed, enjoying the first of many wounds she would inflict on him throughout the night, for the rest of his life – with her mouth, with her nails. In supplication, she pressed her lips to the ring of red teeth marks, her cool exhalation almost an apology that she could not be soft even in this, the sweetest and most bestial of acts. He gave her absolution with his kiss – tender, passionate, red hot and never ending. Kissing him was like having a conversation without words, without crowns or headbands or boyfriends or any of the other things which usually tangled them and bent them over backwards.

She felt so small in his arms, so weak and close to breaking. He held her as if he would never let go, as if he would shut out the world so they could build one of their own. Their kisses turned to iron and steel, filling both with rapture and dread as they began to move together, touching, tasting, seeing, smelling, hearing, exploring – understanding. She could close her eyes then, close them and purr like a cat with sheer unadulterated pleasure.

Blair stares at the ceiling with her hot, bloodshot eyes, and with her chapped lips she smiles. This is a world of people who all know Blair Waldorf, Queen B, and now she has something so undeniably hers that it forges a link in the air between them, a bridge that burns brighter than the sun and sets the dark on fire.

_Fin._


	15. In The Shadow Of A Giant

**_Brooding!Chuck, step up to the plate...you probably won't believe it, but I actually wrote this before I watched the most recent episode! Kismet or what?_**

* * *

**In The Shadow Of A Giant  
**

The thing Chuck Bass fears above all is turning into his father – far more than he ever feared living in Bart's shadow. He doesn't want to look in the mirror one day and see those cold, hard eyes staring back at him. He doesn't want to look at his children with revulsion because they have their mother's brown eyes, and that's all that's left of a love he tried so hard to bury. He doesn't want to eat, sleep and breathe money. He doesn't want to try to forget.

Whenever he thinks like this, Blair knows. She smooths back the dark hair from his brow and says things which halt the tapes of his father's disapproval reverberating in his head. She kisses him, the cool metal of her wedding ring burning against his face – a reminder of everything they have and have yet to lose.

When their daughter is born – a terrifying miniature Blair that screams and rages ten times louder than its mother ever could – Chuck relaxes a little. By the time their son comes along (after a month extra of waiting and Blair eating enough curries and riding enough bicycles to keep the Indian subcontinent afloat), he looks in the mirror to straighten his tie or tidy his hair, not to check if Bart Bass is glaring back at his son from an icy world of reflective glass.

He gets over his second deepest fear – that Blair's child would have bright blue eyes which denounce him as second best, consolation prize now and forever – and looses a final sigh of relief when their third (another girl) grips his finger tight and regards her father with snapping, catlike eyes the same dark hazel as his own.

_Fin._


	16. Stand By Me

**_Someone requested a little more about their children, so here it is!_**

* * *

**Stand By Me**

There's a revolution coming, and she doesn't like the look of it. It's Blair's turn to deal – to placate and control – but she'll never again feel happy about taking on the role of judge, jury and executioner. It reminds her too much of other days, of Machiavelli, of being hated and feared but not loved.

Never loved.

It breaks her in two to do what she does. She feels the pain as if it is her own, as if the tears are her own – oh wait, they are. They are as much a part of her as the pain, forming a bond that goes deeper than any she's ever had: searing into her flesh and marking her as exactly who and what she is.

He gives her strength. It's part of the reason they're a team, how well they can harness each other and turn that power to the greater good (or evil – it just depends on your viewpoint). His hand hasn't always been as been as warm or as sure as it is now, but every last second of heat is worth the fight – it's worth the war. A Blair never to be alone, never again to be slighted or abandoned is a Queen B forever vanquished.

So she does what she must.

"No more macaroons," says Blair Bass firmly to her daughter, and she's almost grateful to wear the garb of a big bad wolf when the youngest Bass runs to her father, climbs him like a monkey, whines about mommy and her meanness and she can see – really _see_ – eyes that are his and lips that are hers, and that the bloodiest of wars ended in a victory so incandescent with beauty that it shamed the heavens with its light.

_Fin._


	17. Implacable

_**My first New Year's present for y'all - stay tuned for the second!**_

* * *

**Implacable**

Three times you deny your lover; three times you deny yourself.

First, you're scared but determined, lips still swollen, thighs still saddlesore. A clean start for a clean break, you think. Too bad that it's far too late, far too far gone - too bad that in the act of consummation you ended the old world and began the new, bathing its glory in a fierce baptism of blood and fire.

_Happy birthday, princess._

Second, you're too daunted by defeat to keep going, too afraid of loss to step back. The touch on your coat sizzles and scalds, so you draw back your hem from the mud and walk on. Too bad the connection has already been established; too bad you still pursue the hunt, even as you run from the hunter.

_Blue line means negative._

Third, your pride is suffering far too much for you to fight any longer, though the end would be in sight if you just had a little faith. So you lie still, and you lie through your clenched teeth. Too bad there's no way of escaping; too bad that you're one and the same, now, one flesh in the blood rite of bondage through passion.

_You will never have me._

Yes you will.

_Fin._

* * *

**_If you couldn't tell, this is three of the times__ Blair pulls away from Chuck to save her face. The first is in 1x08, the second in 1x13, and the third in 2x07._**


	18. Afterglow

_**And here for you is number two!  
**_

_**

* * *

**_

**Afterglow**

"I should get home."

"Yes."

It's interesting to see, Chuck Bass observes, the great Blair Waldorf deep in her afterglow. She's almost asleep, dark head resting on his bare shoulder, long eyelashes sweeping her flushed cheeks and not looking at all like the eyelashes of a seductress and a whore - which, by definition, she is. What else do you call a girl who breaks up with her boyfriend and then proceeds to perform a striptease and lose her virginity to his best friend less than an hour afterward?

You call her lonely, he realises. You call her afraid.

"Chuck?"

"Hmmm?"

"Was I - I mean, was I -"

"You were perfect." He leans in, kisses her drooping eyelids, surprises himself; he suddenly feels as if he should hustle this bewitching girl out of his car and onto the sidewalk before she can do any more damage.

"I didn't imagine it would be like that."

"That's because you weren't imagining it with me."

"I was...sometimes."

He freezes, but she's too drowsy to notice. The idea of _her_, Machiavelli in Manolos, fantasizing about him with her hand down her La Perlas is almost too much for him to handle.

"Chuck?"

"Yes?"

"I should go home."

"Not yet." His palm curls under her jaw and he gently kisses her bruised mouth, tasting her stillborn smile. "Not just yet."

Soon, Blair Waldorf isn't the only one deep in her afterglow.

_Fin._


	19. Over His Left Shoulder

_**T****he idea of a window in the air comes from His Dark Materials, but in the books it has to be cut with the Subtle Knife, and it leads to another world, not the future.** So, a touch convoluted.  
But enjoy.__**  
**_**

* * *

**

**Over His Left Shoulder**

'_There's a window in the air…'_

Children sometimes say they can see windows in the air that show them things – things that have not yet happened. When some see these things, they hope they will never happen. Others wish for them, hope for them, pray for them; others wait for them their whole lives.

Blair Waldorf was eight, and she was losing the adorability that had thus far won her through. Her face had begun to harden into elegant, clear lines – but children cannot see beauty because they do not know what it looks like. Blair was convinced that she was becoming hideous, and that the graceful planes of her new face spelled nothing but doom.

She was talking to Chuck Bass when it happened. A newly lost tooth caused a slight whistling to accompany each word, and Nate was tactful enough to ignore that. Chuck, however, was not.

"And what will happen when you marry poor, put upon Nathaniel?"

"Wedded b'iss, Chuck."

"_Bliss_, Waldorf. There's an 'l' in there you should be aware of."

"And you shouldn't be mean."

He ducked his head, a little ashamed, and that was when she saw it – a window in the air, hovering just above his left shoulder. As the picture clarified, Blair stood transfixed. It was a scene to rival any picture with Audrey and Grace; it was a scene to rival anything in fiction. The couple were elegant, well dressed, glowing with contentment as they strode down the street arm-in-arm. Blair smiled with approval as the woman glared at a girl in very tight blue jeans, and the man said something and laughed.

And then something horrible happened.

As Blair looked, admiring the pretty blue colour of the woman's dress, the woman said something and the man turned his head and kissed her – full on the mouth, in the middle of a street! – but that, of course, wasn't the worst of it. No, that factor lay in the faces of the polished, movie-perfect couple. The woman had those clear lines, those dark eyes, that deep brown hair, but the man…the man was missing that sandy brown hair and those deep blue eyes she adored. Even as her mouth dropped open, even as a sleek black car pulled up to the imaginary kerb, their voices came to her, as if on the wind –

"…_be late, let me go!"_

"_I'm sure your professors will understand…"_

"_Chuck, I'm serious!"_

Blair breathed a sigh of relief as Ch – that _person_ – let go of her older self, but jumped in alarm as the girl in the pretty blue dress laughed – a high, carefree sound – and kissed him again, reaching up one hand to tangle into that mess of dark hair…

"What? What is it, Blair? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Blair jumped back to reality, her gaze snapping straight to Chuck's eyes. There they were, dark hazel, catlike – and suddenly she saw that his features too were beginning to clarify, rivalling hers for angularity and purpose, the plump cherubic beauty of Nate and Serena a long ago dream. The eyes were worried, she saw – and there was something horrible dancing just behind the pupil, something which looked almost like –

She turned and ran. She ran. She ran far away, and she kept running throughout all the years, even when it was unladylike to run. She ran from the memory, from the window in the air; she ran until the one thing she needed to hold her up caught her arm and held on, and wouldn't let her go.

_**~#~**_

"…the whole 'leggings are not pants either' thing?"

Chuck Bass smirked down at his girlfriend, noting with admiration how ire had brought a pretty flush to her cheeks. "I don't know, Waldorf. You, in a pair of those jeans…the limo…various spray-on flavours…"

She swatted at him. "I hate you!"

He laughed, ducking his head to kiss her in the most criminal way he could imagine – by stealing. Her face was instantly surprised, but the flint in her dark eyes sparked, and they were still kissing in a most improper way – mouths working, hands seeking, hearts thumping – when the limo came round the corner.

Predictably, nobody moved.

"I'm going to be late."

"So be late."

"I'll be late, let me go!"

"I'm sure your professors will understand…"

"Chuck, I'm serious!"

Reluctantly he let her go, and she smirked with triumph before launching herself back into his arms.

"I thought you were going to be late…"

"So let them wait."

_Fin._


	20. Mine

**_And here, gentle reader, we join Chuck on that fateful November night when everything changed. Hold on to your hats, kids - it's Chuck's POV Virgin-Day._**

* * *

**Mine**

I know what I want, and I know you won't do what I want if I ask you to do it; so I don't ask. What are we best at? The game. What do I make it?

A game.

And even with naked swords hanging in the air between us, I still don't expect you to make it as far as you do. One step, two steps, three steps – don't stop. Headband, green dress, red lips – don't stop. Don't stop looking over your shoulder at me like I'm the only person in the world. Don't stop believing that it makes my day to make you smile.

"Who's that girl?"

I have no idea. What happened to you? Who are you? What did I do to have you here, to make you laugh, to make you dance? Why is it that when the music stops you don't accept the drinks being proffered by admirers from miles around; why is it that you come to me, laugh at me, collapse beside me and say, "Told you so, Bass."

Why am I glad I was wrong?

And when the whirl of night time fantasies are over and the crowd begins to thin, I offer. You accept. Your shoes are glaring up at me, bright red and black fuck-me-silly shoes that know my secret. I couldn't care less your dress is still lying on the stage.

"Thanks for the lift home."

You were...amazing up there. More than I can say. More than I can fathom, because creatures like you aren't made in pairs. So you scoot over, look me in the eyes, take my hand. You take the initiative and my breath and we kiss, long and hard and hotter than hellfire in July.

"You sure?"

I don't want this to ever end, not even when it's happened over and over and over again so that we're sore and bruised and exhausted. I want you to keep breathing the same air that I do, keep breathing _my_ air, keep your legs wrapped around tight enough to make it feel like I belong. This is a whole new lease on life I've never experienced, and angels and demons only know how I'm going to hunt you down and make you feel and bring you down to me. I'll shatter the shell around you again and again until it's gone, and there's only you, you and me, and the rhythm I'm teaching you to know so well.

Mine.

_Fin._


	21. Paper To Fire

**_This piece's title comes from the Roman custom of holding a calendar to a flame and then deciding (by interpretation of the scorch marks) when a wedding should take place. I do like fluff.  
_**

**

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**

**Paper To Fire**

Blair Waldorf was born in November, when the temperatures were arctic but it wasn't yet cold enough to snow. Chuck Bass was born in May, when the buds were blooming prettily outside the window as his mother lay dying.

She's the older woman – six months older, in fact – but he loves her just the same.

Blair Waldorf was born in November, when the frost was thick enough to build a wall around her heart. Chuck Bass were born in May, as the heat began to rise and sweat glistened on arms, legs, lips and sweetly curving hips.

She's all ice and he's all fire; what a pair for dark desire.

They laid her in a white draped crib and left her all alone. He was laid in the midwife's arms, and felt that last touch on his brow that meant she – the only she in his life so far – was gone. He was commandeered by nannies and cold hands and cold, hard cash.

Alone, she took comfort in things. Alone, he found solace in people.

They were thrown together throughout their lives – 'Blair, stand next to Charles' and 'the dark pair together, please'. It shows in the photographs: a smirking dark mirror to the golden goodness of the two opposite, dressed and pressed into happiness.

You are my affinity.

You are my salvation.

Thawing through, and tempered by love – who could've imagined what would come to pass? That ice and fire would meet, and gambit for the piece of themselves that they saw in the other? Who could've known – who would've dared to hope?

And then it becomes, 'Charles, darling' and 'Blair, dear', and even sometimes 'Mr and Mrs Bass' – always in that same corner together, always plotting, always scheming, always loving through skill and temptation and triumph. And that one picture Eleanor holds in her hands says it all: Nate and Serena, smiling for the camera, while Chuck and Blair are there, oblivious – a stolen moment gleaming in their eyes as her head is turned, as their lips are inevitably about to touch.

Paint me black, or white, or sepia – you're all I want.

_Fin._


	22. Indecent Proposal

**Indecent Proposal**

The white queen stands in her cold castle, gaze turned outward upon a field of snow. Down on the icy plane is her perfect counterpart – the white knight, he of valour and virtue and care. Her red lips part as she looks upon him, as her black gaze searches his soul for the flaws and imperfections which will render him useless to her. But even as she looks, she knows there are none: no sins and no lusts, for he is as spotless as she – a suit of armour for a cold bedfellow.

She crosses the icy pale floor to look out upon the burning plains, the burning plains of the south, where an army marches towards her, robed in the devil's own scarlet. Even as she looks, a battle cry is flung towards their leader – he who takes point in fiery crimson, hellish eyes aflame and looking straight at her. The queen shrinks away, her back against the comforting coolness of the stone wall, her heart drumming with – fear? Is it fear, this madness she feels? Or is it something else?

The tower door opens and a lady enters, a young woman whose high collar of white wolf skin perfectly sets off long, honey coloured tresses. In her hand is a letter, addressed in brilliant vermillion to the queen herself. It is taken from her, slit open, and the one word missive is read:_ surrender_. _Never_, the queen replies, her own pen bleeding the blue blood of royalty onto the page. She returns it to the lady, who rushes from the room and sends the reply with a swift rider across the plains.

The queen watches from the window as the general receives it; unfolds it; replies. Her throat is dry and her palms are damp and she cannot seem to stop pacing. As the rider returns, she twists her long pale fingers together, blinking with agitation as once again the golden haired lady enters her tower, handing her the crumpled note. The queen opens it eagerly, and is surprised when a ruby ring drops into her palm. The stone is heart shaped, glittering with fire and wonder. She smiles.

The young woman in the doorway gasps as her monarch slides the ring onto the correct finger, her cheeks flushing with the pleasure of it – not yet the red of ripe cherries, but the soft blush of rose madder. As the queen crosses the room to her writing desk, the colour in her face deepens, and as she sits to write her answer she finds the ink in her pen has changed to deep, imperial purple. Shaking her head at her own folly, she inscribes all else that is necessary, keeping her reply to four short words:

_Took you long enough._

_Fin.  
_

_

* * *

_

_**Starring (in order of appearance):**_

_**The White Queen........................................Blair Waldorf  
The White Knight**__**......................................Nate Archibald  
The Rebel General**__**..........................................Chuck Bass  
The Lady-In-Waiting**__**..............**__**Serena van der Woodsen**_

_**Happy Valentine's Day.  
**_


	23. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

**_Bit of an odd one, this. I hate talent show sensations (bar Carrie Underwood and Jennifer Hudson, of course) but JLS' song was on the radio while I was making a sandwich and it got me thinking. Also, the order's a bit weird. The speaker goes Chuck, Blair, Chuck, Blair etc, but the first two paragraphs are just general and thereafter it references Chuck's speech at the White Party (2x01) _****_in paragraph three_****_, Blair's failed housewarming seduction (2x07) _****_in paragraph four, Chuck's 'well that's too bad' (2x13) in paragraph five and finally the 'I love you too' in paragraph six.__  
Enjoy the smutiness._**  
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**

**Kiss Kiss Bang Bang**

'_You've only get one shot, so make it count  
You might never get this moment again.'_  
– One Shot, JLS.

'_Bang bang, he shot me down  
Bang bang, that awful sound  
Bang bang, I hit the ground  
Bang bang, my baby shot me down.'_  
Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down), Nancy Sinatra.

We're stuck in this sticky game of Russian roulette, you and I – four in the chamber, two in the bedroom; cold steel, hot flesh, bang until you bleed and beg for more. There's sweat running between your shoulder blades that I want to lick; I want to get far enough and deep enough inside to make you squirm and sigh.

I know you because you're turning me insane – walk this way. I know everything that makes you who you are, every last tell and Achilles heel. You think I can't top everything you've seen so far, that I can't blow you wide open? You think I can't crease your back with my bullets? Those white hot scars are all mine: my property. Keep off, bitches.

First one blows for your last breath because _I. Don't. Say. It._ You're glowing like a setting sun, inferno; crimson heart's blood draining and painting you whiter than a snowdrift. What was all lightness and farce is now so deep, so dark, so ingrained in my soul that I can't even look at you anymore. Like a child, you've won – you've ruined the game.

Look at that, second shot, and right between the eyes. I'll light you up and smoke you down because I'm twice as scared as you are, and you're a million times more tempting when I can/can't/_won't_ have you. There's nothing left to us, we're too wrong to survive. But lay more on the line, don't leave so soon – Russian roulette is a game for two.

Thud break _bleed_ into me, because you've shattered me like glass, an angel of death defying mercy in deepest black. I hate you hate you _hate you_ like I hate everything and the world is black black _black_ and silent and full of your face as the ricochet covers your hand with red hot blue blood and fills your eyes with tears.

Last one, and this last kiss is better than none. I thought I knew you but it seems you know me better, need me better; have me better set for being yours than I ever have been for being myself. This is a loving bullet, this last – it explodes in my soul and forces you there, forces your lips on mine and your voice in my head and –

One.

Last.

Shot.

_Fin._


	24. Ne Vous Fiez Pas À Moi

_**Some good old pre-series lust with Chuck...who I'm really enjoying playing with right now. He's a lot of fun to write.  
There's been a real slump in reviews for the last few chapters and I'd just like to ask that, even if you've reviewed before, you drop me a line to tell me what you think. I can't improve if no one tells me what they liked!**  
**The lyrics are from 3OH!3, bien sûr**__**. Enjoy.**_

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_

**Ne Vous Fiez Pas À**** Moi**

_Black dress, with the tights underneath…_

I'm watching you watching me watching you. I'm watching you tense when you realise where your eyes are pointing, and I'm watching your pulse begin to pound. I'm watching you run for Nate, and I'm watching you drag him off to an empty room where I can't watch you.

I'm watching you watching me watching you lie.

_I got the breath of a last cigarette on my teeth…_

Tar will never smell as good as you do. Look at you, all palely virginal, smelling of some expensive perfume that just screams _sexsexsex_, red lips and thigh highs promising _slutslutslut_ on the _slyslysly_. Smoke curls up from the embers of who you are, and what you want.

Future Vanderbilts don't wear black lace under white silk.

_Tongue's always pressed to your cheeks…_

It's an annoying little habit of yours. It's an annoying little habit of yours I like to observe. It's an annoying little habit of yours I like to observe because it's unconsciously erotic, that convex of skin signifying something far, far away from that face you make when you're thinking.

I wonder what you'd taste like.

_While my tongue is on the inside of some other girl's teeth…_

The forbidden fruit, that's you, more peach than apple. Une liaison dangereuse avec toi would be enough, je croix – enough for one petit mort to eclipse all others. They shade into blanc et gris but you would be noir, endless and forever; plus belle et plus mal. I want you, with your hidden sweetness and your hidden wetness and your hidden tightness and your motherfucking _everything_…je t'aime.

Ou je t'adore.

_Fin._

* * *

_**French Glossary:**_

**Bien sûr:** of course.  
**Ne vous fiez pas à moi:** don't trust me.  
**Une liaison dangereuse avec toi:** a dangerous liason with you.  
**Je croix:** I think.  
**Petit mort:** little death - the French term for an orgasm.  
**Blanc et gris:** white and grey.  
**Noir:** black.  
**Plus belle et plus mal:** more beautiful and worse.  
**Je t'aime:** I like you.  
**Ou je t'adore:** or I love you.

_**NB: If**_**_ any genuine French person wants to call me out on any of these, please go ahead - the credit goes to my GCSE French teacher for teaching me marvellous French ways and giving me delusions of grandeur._**


	25. Clocks

**Clocks**

Boy, 16 should know better when Girl, 16 kisses him with her soft sweet lips and Boy, 16 shouldn't ask the question that Friend, 16 should be asking her instead. Boy, 16 knows that it's wrong to feel anything for Girl, 16 who needs _somebody everybody anybody_ to pull her back from the brink. Boy, 16 knows he should keep his heart in his pants and his brain in his head but Girl, 16 is enough to screw up anyone's anatomy and make them crazy _foreverforeverforever_ so what the hell should he do?

Girl, 17 knows she knows better than to fake what she lost for Friend, 16 who for some reason still cares. Boy, 16 exists in her mind as Friend, 16 goes _downdowndown_ on her and she gasps because in her head it's Boy, 16 making her feel like she's on fire. But when Friend, 16 makes the mistake of saying her name then it all disappears like smoke because you can't confuse two voices that are as different as fire and ice. Girl, 17 wonders what the hell she's still fighting for.

Boy, 17 is _waitingwaitingwaiting_ to pay for his ills and for abandoning Girl, 17 whom he knows he should've waited for/should've gone to/should've kissed from the top of her head to the tips of her manicured toes, now and forever. Boy, 17 is sick to his stomach and surrounds himself with depravity, waiting in the scorching sun on a golden sanded beach for Girl, 17 to appear and make his life even vaguely worth living again. Boy, 17 is by this point willing to _buy_ Tuscany if it will help her to forgive him.

Girl, 17 is feeling rage and pain the likes of which she has never felt before and she _hateshateshates_ Boy, 17 for his inability to be true to himself but she doesn't want Friend/Ex, 17 and she doesn't need Best Friend, 17 to cosset her and try to make her stop seeing the haze of red before her eyes. Girl, 17 is mad enough to spit and Girl, 17 is sad enough to cry and Girl, 17 will run herself ragged out for his _blood love blood love blood love_ or kill herself trying rather than ever be labelled a quitter.

And Boy, 17 will try to take her in the dark but Girl, 17 will always let him in that easy and Boy, 17 will walk the wild edge late at night but Girl, 18 will always bring him back down to her and Boy, 18 will make her feel like what she is (_queen princess goddess-of-all_) but Girl, 18 will push him back with three more words and Boy, 18 will feel her _lips/hips_ beneath his fingers and pull away but Girl, 18 will always wait that one more second to hear him say _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou._

_Fin._


End file.
